Addictions
by Mister Fondler
Summary: A certain Anthony Goldstein analyzes his relationship with his peer, Terry Boot and gives a satirical synopsis on the two's especial unhealthy influence on each other.


**Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, the characters, or any other allusions from the series, nor am I claiming to be J.K. Rowling.**

**Shipping: Anthony Goldstein/Terry Boot.**

**Author's Note: This is based off a role-play with [Alex], whom this is dedicated to.**

* * *

Everyone has an addiction. Addiction... a habit or practice of being abnormally tolerant and dependent on something. Or someone.

Most are addicted to drugs. Many are addicted to alcohol. Some are addicted to sex. Few are addicted to loneliness.

The thing is... if only I knew that I was addicted to you.

* * *

"It's funny," I say quietly, but I know you can hear me just fine. "You only come here when you're desperate." You're silent. Speechless, Booty Boy?

You finally open your mouth and I realize now that I'm anxiously teetering on the edge of my bed for whatever you're going to retort with. "You always seem to accept."

_Bastard_, I think bitterly. It is my turn to think of a clever response, but nothing can immediately come to mind. My mouth is dry, and though it's hardly a comeback I speak anyway. I was never one to watch my tongue, and you know that better than anyone.

"Well how could I reject the Golden Boy, Terry Boot?"

Unfortunately your tongue is as sharp as your mind. You speak as if this whole conversation has been rehearsed. "Wouldn't 'Golden Boy' fit you better, _Goldstein_?"

"We really are perfect for each other," I say with a charming smile. You're not amused; you're never amused. What can I do to get a genuine smile from you?

I sigh, knowing that this would have to be the time I put my foot down. Instead, I just end up saying 'What time?' Maybe I do get a smile, because you sure aren't frowning anymore.

You pull a quill out from the nightstand drawer and a remnant of parchment, before scribbling down something and passing me it with a smirk.

* * *

You storm into the room and are fortunate that I'm the only one currently in it at the moment. I feel no obligation to ask what's the problem, because I have learned by now everything is wrong to you. So I instead just look back down at my essay and try to ignore you tearing apart your bed looking for something.

I suppose I never really had a choice. The parchment zooms from my sight, and when I glance back up to say something you're already pushing my shoulders down and kissing my neck. It's the third day back, were you this excited to see me?

You're just frustrated, and as much as I just love being used, I push you off. You're staring back with a quirked brow, as if asking me what's the matter. "What are you doing?" I finally ask after holding our gazes for ages. And you're smiling – it's practically as nerve-wracking as Duncan's 10 seconds flashbombs.

Then your lips are back on mine without a word and as confused as I am, I don't question anymore and go with it.

Why didn't I know from then on that these flings would become a habit.

* * *

This really couldn't be healthy.

No, obviously not... yet if that were the case, why was it becoming more and more frequent? You're a drug. A bad drug that I couldn't break my vice of.

One that I kept returning to. That I had the sensibility to know was doing me no good, would do me no good, and ultimately needed to cease.

That's what I'm thinking as I stand on the Astronomy Tower waiting for you. The words of motivation that would give me enough incentive to finally cut off all strings. This will be it – there is no love here. Today, I become free from anything I've felt for you. Emotions will not rule, as my own being is to be put first in front of your grimy wants.

At least, that is easier to realize in retrospect.

I really am not a motivational speaker whatsoever, as when you appear, my words seem to have failed me. Is this the darker side of me, the desperate one? That same part of me that is your entire being? I'm under the impression you rubbed off on me honestly.

"You are no longer my drug," I start with much indignation, not even realizing that I have a laughable amount of confidence in my voice, "and I don't even need rehab – I'm just going to move on."

Everything had been worded so nicely in my head and then that? _Then that?_

Needless to say, I'm not too surprised when you let out a dry chuckle.

"You wanted me up here to say that? Should've left me a note in my bag, I think that would've had more of an effect than that petulant announcement."

Really, I don't understand just exactly what I see in you. It _was _hormones. With that fact bore in mind I can remind myself that that need could be filled by anyone. Which means, I don't _need_ you.

"Cut the crap," I mumble with any dignity I can muster. Oh, but why was I mumbling...

You give me a skeptical look, and I'm utterly convinced you think I am a joke. So I keep going – this was the time to make myself heard by you.

"Everyone is sick of being victimized by you, Boot! It's all fun and games until someone loses a kidney!"

You probably would have been offended if I hadn't said the second part.

So while I note the corner of your lips tugging upwards, I rub the back of my neck trying to sort my thoughts a bit. Kidney? The worse part of mentioning that was the fact we had two of those; losing one wouldn't kill anyone.

After we exchange a moment of silence, though you look more amused than anything and I'm just as stiff as a board, a particular wind blows through us that rubs me the wrong way.

More specifically, something is wrong. Don't think I am some detective to reason this, though – it's just that your mouth is twisting into this purely chilling smile and I realize that cool breeze isn't to blame for the goosebumps on my arms and standing hairs on my neck.

I wonder if you're going to push me off this tower actually.

That's how frightening you appear right now.

"What?"

"Hm?"

"What, what?" I hope my voice doesn't sound _that _frantic but I shouldn't be shocked if it was. I think it is as whatever look had taken over your features is slowly fading and is being replaced with the smirk. I don't recall you smirking nearly this much in our entire school days.

In the least, you seem … normal, again.

If I knew any better, I would definitely have inferred that you were very capable of homicide. Well – I shouldn't think that. You might be sinister, but I don't think you could actually kill someone given the chance despite your occasional off-putting expressions of disdain.

You finally turn on your heel without another word and despite my terrible (lack of) words, I think I got through. I think I'm free of you.

* * *

It's been a few weeks since I had confronted and attempted to talk to you – though really you had taken the memo and left me be – but honestly I miss you.

Sometimes I miss how we were years ago. With Corner. The three of us... ah, could it be true that all was normal two years ago? To be frank, besides me seeing this as inevitable, I'm fairly sure that this was just an eye-opener.

No, I have to stand by what I was intending to say that night. I don't need you, I don't want you. You are nothing to me.

* * *

We wish you a Merry Christmas, we wish you a Merry Christmas, we wish you a Merry Christmas.

And a Happy New Year.

I break into a fit of laughter at the thought, ignoring the weird looks I am receiving from the few around me occupying the surrounding library tables.

So what _is_ my New Year resolution. Graduate, make sure I'm remembered here as more than just that '97 Ravenclaw Headboy, focus on training for my career to come.

Basically, working for myself, and only myself.

Though I'm pretty sure I am reaching some sort of insanity level as of late. Just like you.

Yes, you.

I'm still thinking about you, Boot. Not as much as before. I don't see you as often, either. That helps. Still.

My laughter dies down quickly, and I wonder why I'm still at the castle for the Holidays anyway.

Oh, because you are. And I want to give you my gift.

It's about curfew time anyway, so I move out of my chair, book sliding across the table in sync until I'm standing with it and walking towards the exit.

Admittedly, last year I bought you gifts in hopes to make amends for whatever was changing between us.

Now I bought you something to mock the fact that there is nothing between us.

Not to mention how that ended up with me flipping you off and another period of no talking.

The one I feel worst for is Michael. Though his thoughts are dedicated to his parents and self, so honestly I don't think he gives a second thought to what drama we're creating for ourselves.

Patiently waiting for the staircase to move, I'm keen to see your face as I hand you your gift.

I stand in front of the door as it presents me with a riddle.

'A man marries ten women in his village, yet isn't charged with polygamy. Why is this possible?'

Because his name is Terry Boot, and he's fucking invincible.

…. "He's a Priest."

The door grants my entry immediately. Every time I get the answer correct I feel more and more cocky. Ah, thank you Ravenclaw for feeding my ego.

The door is open when I make it to the top of the staircase, and what do you know. There you are, reading. You ignore me but it's hardly any surprise by now.

I walk towards my bed and pull the small box out from underneath the pillow before throwing it at you with a 'Think fast!' Un- no, _fortunately, _you didn't, and it smacks you in the head as you had at the time turned it.

After you get over the initial surprise, and the all-too-familiar frown had graced your features again, you pick it up. You look back at me with a raised eyebrow, as if not trusting the gift. More of, not trusting the person it was coming from.

"Go on," I urge. You're not afraid – it could be practically anything, yet you have no more hesitation.

Though I have to say, your expression is priceless. It really is.

"A lighter?"

"A lighter," I confirm.

"A lighter," you repeat.

"Flip it over."

You oblige and then you're passing it back to me with a smirk. _That_ smirk.

I take it, knowing everything said that one night on the Tower was for nothing. I could possibly have been lying through my teeth, but in the end I still came back.

Did one ever truly break his or her habits, the vices, the obsession?

Yes, one did.

Only difference was that this was none of those.

This was love. An unbalanced, sick, horrible thing called love.

I catch your eye for one more second before I roll it over in my palm and read the same text you just had.

_If you want to fuck, smile when you give this lighter back._

We're back to square one. But I love you; I can convince myself whenever that that's not true yet in the end, it is.

Everyone has an addiction.

The unfortunate fact that I've finally come to accept is that I'm still addicted to you.


End file.
